AoD
by Mohammed Bey
Summary: What happens when a mercenary unit is run by a corporation and made up of dysfunctional personnel. Baron Helmuth von Wiener is the Chief Executive Officer of Reinhardt's Corporate Raiders, a mercenary unit that doesn't care where their members came from and what their past may have been. RCR only cares if you can fight for your pay. An irreverent romp through the Inner Sphere.
1. Galatea

**The Army of Dickness**

**Galatea System**

**Galaport City**

**Federated Commonwealth**

**January, 3053**

**0800 Hours**

The display on the digital clock blinked furiously red but instead of an alarm, a strain of baroque music broke the silence before a masculine hand slapped down on the device and returned the dimly lit room to momentary silence. _Freiherr_ Helmut von Wiener rubbed a hand over his eyes and sat up in his bed and pulled the crisp, linen sheet down to expose his bare, muscled chest. He looked over to his nightstand, grasped the lead crystal shot glass that sat next to the clock and gulped down the amber contents. His eyes scanned across the wood-paneled room and identified the articles of strewn clothing, including the blue flight attendant's uniform wadded up in the corner, next to the gleaming black high-heeled shoe. He then noticed the sleeping form buried under the sheet next to him and shook his head.

"Njegus!"

A portly old man in a tuxedo stood at the open door, "Ja, mein _Freiherr_?"

"Did you sharpen my razor and ready the soap?"

"Yes I have, sir." The servant was about to turn but halted, "I laid out your gray suit for the briefing today."

The _Freiherr_ rolled out of bed and pulled his thick bathrobe over his broad shoulders. "Wake up, you."

The woman under the sheet stirred.

"Make sure you fill out the waiver forms before you leave."

**0900 Hours**

The ornate doors of the brass-trimmed lift opened and _Freiherr_ Helmut stepped out into the wide, brightly lit hallway. Clad in a tailored gray business suit with a silk tie, the Baron looked like any other Lyran corporate operative. At the end of the hall was a set of heavy wood-paneled doors which slowly swung open as he approached. The first thing he noticed was a pair of women in gaudy colored dresses.

"What are you two wearing?"

"It's _Aloha_ Friday," replied Bertha Ostheimer, the Human Resources Secretary. "We are wearing _muumuus_." She smiled at him as her fingers pulled the material of her muumuu at her wide hips and performed a comical curtsy.

"Ah, so there was a sale at _Omar the Tentmaker_, and when did you learn Holstein dialect?"

"A _muumuu_ is a Hawaiian-style dress," replied Uta Blücher, who stood by her Reception Desk.

The Senior Accountant, Heinz Krummhorn, walked out of his office, he wore a loose shirt with a similar colorful print pattern as the dresses worn by the women. "Hey everybody!"

"Heinz, don't tell me, you joined a gay bowling league."

Krummhorn looked wounded by the remark. "No! This is my _Aloha_ Friday shirt."

"Whatever, just don't use silly Polynesian customs as another excuse not to do your ridiculously meaningless jobs."

The double doors opened again and another man in a gray business suit, Benjamin Dover, walked it. "Is today _Aloha_ Friday? I could have worn my gay bowling shirt."

"Eat a dick," replied Krummhorn.

"If that's an invitation to lunch, I've already eaten," replied Benjamin Dover. He turned to von Wiener, "I'm ready for the briefing."

Baron Helmut nodded, "I'm ready." He pushed against to the door to the conference room.

The conference room was very large with a massive oak table with enough padded chairs for thirty people. On the far wall was a projected image of a large topographical map. A woman with graying hair, _Grafin_ Helga Rheinhardt, wore an expensive business suit and stood next to the projection. Seated about the table were a handful of other people, most in business suits but a couple of them wore uniforms.

"Good morning Herr _Freiherr_." A woman in a military-cut aero pilot's jumpsuit nodded to von Wiener.

"Morning, Sev," replied the Baron. He shot the pilot a quick wink, took the seat at the far end of the table facing the display, pulled a datapad from an internal coat pocket and placed it on the polished surface.

The woman by the display raised a hand, "Today's briefing is important so try to pretend that you are paying attention." She continued in a level voice, "As many of you are aware, due to Ostheimer's indiscriminate grapevine, _Unteroffizier_ Dong has possible information on the location of a Star League depot."

"You mean where he supposedly found his crappy, old pulse rifle?" The Baron synchronized the briefing material on his datapad. "Holy crap, it's on Carver V?"

"Indeed," said Rheinhardt. "That _noxious_ dirtball has been fought over by every Inner Sphere power due to its being a dumping ground for Star League technology and our preliminary research has confirmed that the approximate site is located on an ancient Terran Hegemony military base."

One of the executives raised his hand; it was Dover, the commander of the Battlemech Lance known as the _Ass Clowns_. "So, why don't we have more accurate information?"

_Grafin_ Helga replied, "The corporal located the site while on a random prospecting dig and did not have any coördinate or satellite information as the many invasions have destroyed the orbital navigation systems long ago."

"Which means this mission hinges upon that illiterate, Capellan dirt farmer remembering where he found the site," commented von Wiener.

"Not necessarily," added the _Grafin_. "The unit fields the kind of equipment that may be able to detect the site if in close proximity."

An Asian man wearing a Federated Suns infantry uniform stood up, "Me not Caperran, me FedSun."

"Likely story," replied Dover. "Somebody arrest him for murdering the English language."

"What do you expect of a guy who needs to save up two month's pay to hire a cheap, Capellan prostitute?" asked the aero pilot, Seven E. Leven.

Baron Helmut added, "Isn't that redundant? I mean, _all_ Capellan prostitutes are cheap."

The aeropilot Leven chimed in, "His best pickup line is 'How much?'"

"That's his _only_ pickup line."

"Usually answered with a sound slap."

"That's enough!" Helga Rheinhardt rolled her eyes; unit briefings always degenerated like this. She paused a moment until she was certain that she regained their attention. "The Corporal's personal life isn't an issue here. According to his report he found a vast underground warehouse filled with crates." She pressed the button on her remote and the image of rifle appeared, "Unfortunately, this one nonfunctional, pulse-laser infantry weapon was all he was able to smuggle out of the facility and off planet."

"Are you sure we have the correct information?" von Wiener held his notepad up and looked at the map on its display.

"Our intelligence analysts have narrowed the search area to a five by five kilometer location."

Dover spoke, "By 'intelligence analysts' you mean Doctor Mengele and his wife, don't you?"

Rheinhardt crossed her arms, "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Does anybody else have a problem with a guy who made a living doing biological warfare experiments on prisoners?"

"I don't," commented von Wiener, "Who else would you use?"

"Prisoners?"

"Meaning the _losers_," added the Baron, "Who believes that surrendering should be rewarded? Other than somebody from the FedSuns, who'd whine for a medal?"

"Me from FedSuns," declared Corporal Dong. "We not coward!"

"Which FedSuns? The effeminate, _tea_-drinking FedSuns or the effeminate, _wine_-drinking FedSuns?" replied von Wiener with a dismissive gesture.

"Ahem." The Grafin frowned.

"What if _you_ were taken prisoner?" asked Dover.

"Unlike the common rabble, _I'd_ be ransomed," replied the Baron.

"Ahem."

"Well maybe some of the _common rabble_ don't have a wealthy mother to bail them out."

"How is that _my_ fault?"

"_Ahem!"_

"What?!" von Wiener raised his voice; he was obviously annoyed at the interruption.

"This briefing isn't over," said the Grafin.

"So we have a simple dig, grab and run, why do _I_ have to go? Send the _menials_."

Rheinhardt continued, "Although no fighting is expected, Carver V is still border world with possible hostile elements present so the operation has to be discrete."

A handful of the attendees chuckled.

"If you don't want us to be noticed then make sure you don't send the Baron," said the female pilot, Leven.

"That's right," added Baron Helmuth. "As one of the best mercenary commanders in the universe, I'd be immediately recognized –So I'm not going."

There was more chuckling.

"The plan requires some bureaucratic maneuvering and that requires your presence, Helmuth," explained the _Grafin_. "Please reconsider." She pressed a button on the remote and the image of a posh resort hotel appeared on the screen. "Over the years since Corporal Dong's discovery of the site, there have been numerous commercial improvements and development of the area. This hotel and gambling casino are located at the Northeast corner of the site and strip mall is at the Southwest corner."

"And with all that renovation nobody found the cache?"

"There is no record of anything like it being found," replied the _Grafin_. "If everything goes as planned, the operation will take place during the _Fasching_ celebration."

"_That_ does it, I'm definitely not going," announced the Baron. "It's bad enough to be digging around for buried crap but why would I do it while surrounded by Catholics holding some drunken, farmer orgy?"

"We going to orgy?" asked Dong, he looked somewhat hopeful.

"Shut up," snapped Rheinhardt. She used the remote to advance the image to one of a voluptuous blonde woman wearing an expensive gown, furs and jeweled tiara. "This is the _Markgräfin_ Maria von Schleicher, the current owner of a major part of the site as well as the owner of the hotel."

"Which means my presence there is essential to the success of the mission," announced von Wiener. "I suddenly see the possibilities of all manners of discreet insertion."

There was a sudden chorus of exasperated exclamations.

"This is just like you," scolded Leven. "Show you a large pair of boobs and you're suddenly focused."

"_You_ should know," replied the Baron. "I'm ready to spearhead the undercover portion of this mission."

There were more exasperated moans.

"Is that all?" asked Rheinhardt.

"Just a moment," he paused to take a breath. "_Penetration_," the Baron said. "Okay, I'm done."

"Next, Doctor Mengele is going to brief you on the updated security protocols."

A middle-aged, bearded man with a receding hairline wearing a white laboratory coat strode into the room. The projected image changed to a bizarre display of characters.

"The current security protocols now require every password to include at least one Capital letter, one lower case letter, one punctuation, two numbers, and one Sanskrit character," announced Mengele. "Or, as in the above example, use my dog's name."


	2. Pirates of Carver V

**1100 Hours**

_Freiherr_ Helmuth von Wiener sat patiently in his undershirt and trousers in the corporate examination room while the young Asian woman in the stark, white lab coat administered a battery of inoculations with an automated injector gun.

"You may put your shirt on, Helmut-_sama_," said Rei-_san_ in her soft, almost whispering voice. "Please _ret_ me know if you have any ill effects." According to Doctor Mengele, Rei-_san_ was the doctor's wife. She was obviously skilled in the medical field but many in the company wondered at her age, as she appeared to be in her teens.

Von Wiener bowed slightly, "Thank you very much, Rei-_sensei_."

Rei-_san_ covered her mouth with one delicate hand and giggled like a schoolgirl, "You too nice, Helmuth-_sama_."

The Freiherr buttoned up his cotton-linen shirt and pulled his tailored, gray suit jacket over his broad shoulders. He stepped out into the waiting room, where several other field operatives waited their turn. "Next inoculation for _Capellan Crotch Rot_." He looked at _Associate_ Dong, "I know, _too late for you_."

The corporal sneered, "Me went get cure last year."

"Those poor sheep…" commented von Wiener. He nodded to Benjamin Dover, who sat beside another Battlemech pilot, a man from the Draconis Combine, known as Botoichi. "Hey, Ben."

Ben tapped Botoichi in the shoulder, and whispered into his ear, "Get the pirate costume I issued you ready. That's going to be the _Ass Clown_ uniform of the day while we're on the shithole."

Botoichi sighed, but nodded in agreement.

Benjamin's antics were usually on the crazy side of the fine line between crazy and genius, but the man knew how to pilot his _Grasshopper_, and more importantly, he knew when to ignore Baron Helmut on the battlefield to ensure that his lance would live to see another day.

Botoichi sighed once more.

Two sighs was something Ben was not used to seeing.

"If I have to, I'll make it an order."

"No, it's not that", Botoichi said.

"The _Ass Clowns_ go all the way, right?"Botoichi asked Ben.

"Damn straight," Ben quickly replied.

"No matter what we wear, we're going to stick out like sore thumbs on Carver V, so we might as well go all the way and erect that thumb as high as we can," Botoichi continued, "Not only do we dress as pirates... We should run around as a film crew filming something along the lines of _'The Pirates of Carver V'_, starring our very own Baron Helmut Von Weiner himself."

"I like that!" Ben exclaimed.

"Like what?" the Baron quickly responded, obviously annoyed that he wasn't the center of attention within the room.

Ben stood up. "My bad, _Herr_ Baron," he replied, "Botoichi had an idea and wasn't too comfortable about speaking up, not having been here for long. As his lance commander (with an emphasis on the phrase lance commander), I felt responsible for presenting this idea to you."

"Well, don't hold back. Flop it on the table. Let's see what you got."

Ben tapped the Combine mechwarrior on the head, saying, "Alright Boto, time for you to rise up to the challenge, make me proud."

Botoichi shook his head, then began to explain; "We're going to stick out like sore thumbs while on Carver V, being a bunch of men walking around aimlessly while the Capellan tries to dig around in the dirt. On top of that, if anyone on the planet sees any of our gear, they could put two and two together and realize that mercenaries don't show up on a planet like Carver V for the scenery."

"Go on," Helmut said, raising a brow at Botoichi.

"So we masquerade as a film crew, filming some scenes for our very own Helmut Von Wiener's upcoming movie, _'Pirates of Carver V'_. As a film crew who wants the authentic experience, we'd hire a mercenary company of quality, like the _Corporate Raiders_, to protect us while we film in these parts of the planet."

"The film crew would need to stay at a hotel, and coincidentally, the area we want to 'film' in has a budding resort hotel nearby, who probably wouldn't mind being credited as the location of a film shoot."

Botoichi directed his next words at the baron. "And a film star? Regardless of where the film airs or how well it does, VIP treatment."

Helmut perked up in response to Botoichi's declaration. "Indeed, this desolate planet could use the good graces of someone, such as _me_."

"So this allows us to keep tabs on the people in the hotel as VIP guests in the hotel itself, and allows us to roll out equipment out on the field to use as 'authentic props'."

"Lastly, if anyone asks, we're filming the scenes where our Capellan slave is guiding us to a lost treasure in exchange for us sparing his life, a suitable cover for what we're going to be doing out there."

Baron Helmuth activated his communicator, "_Fraülein_ Blücher, meet me in my office, there are several preparations that have to be made before the unit departs for Carver V." He looked at Dover, "Have a list of things we may need for tomorrow's briefing."

"I've already started one, _Herr_ Baron."

**Briefing Room **

**1430 Hours**

The _Freiherr_ stood before a wall-sized projected image of a map and faced the room full of assorted unit members. "The permits are pending and we have yet to complete the shooting schedule, which depends on the script, which…" He motioned to a man sitting in the far corner of the room, "…is being written by our guest, please welcome Herr Jacob Strauss."

The man sitting in the corner meekly rose to his feet and gave a modest wave. He is slim, middle-aged, slightly balding, bespectacled and casually dressed in tweed slacks and a wool sweater. The people in the briefing room applauded and Strauss looked even less comfortable.

The Baron motioned to the writer, "Please, tell us how you are coming along with the script."

Strauss slowly rose to his feet, "Well, um…I've got most of the outline worked out…" He fidgeted a bit, "I really want to meet the people who will be in the vid to round out the characters."

"And that you shall, Herr Strauss! You shall be dining with us, walking among us, seeing us going about our day to day routines in order to portray a swaggering crew or piratical types," announced von Wiener proudly.

The people in the briefing room leaped to their feet as one and cheered.

**Battlemech Hangar**

**1230 hours**

Benjamin Dover stood chest-high looking out of the hatch of his Grasshopper Battlemech, "Check the secondary power connector, I'm getting a fluctuation reading to my secondary weapons."

The technician, who stood at the cart laden with diagnostic equipment, looked at his screen, "It looks like the entire three-zero-five socket assembly should be replaced." The technician stepped back and bumped into Jacob Strauss, who was busily scribbling notes. "Hey, don't get underfoot here, we're working!"

"Oh, sorry!" The writer backed away from the 'Mech bay and almost backed into an industrial exoskeleton moving a pallet laden with components. "Ahh!"

"Watch where you're going," called out the exoskeleton driver. "You can't just wander around the work area."

"Sorry."

"Herr Strauss, I've been appointed as your guide."

The scriptwriter almost jumped out of his shoes when the female voice behind him spoke. He turned and almost dropped his datapad when he stood face to face with a tall, shapely, blonde woman in a pilot's jumpsuit.

"Hello, I'm Seven E. Leven, one of the Raiders' Aerospace Fighter pilots." She extended a hand.

"Uh, um…er…" Strauss stammered, "Pleased to meet you." He shook her hand.

"Have you had lunch yet? We could go to the cafeteria and you could fill me in on what you've done today."

"Yes, lunch would be good," he replied.

**Corporate Cafeteria**

**1300 Hours**

"So, everybody here uses an alias?" asked Strauss.

"Yes and no," Leven replied. "The corporation allows their employees to use any name they wish. In turn, the city of _Neu Wien_ officially registers that name and issues all the papers needed to confirm that name so that identity is the official identification used on Galatea and in the Federated Commonwealth."

"I see, so this place is kind of a haven, isn't it?"

Leven nodded, "You could say that," she sipped her coffee, "Some of us _do_ have colorful pasts, after all."

The writer made a notation on his datapad, "Do tell…would you like to fill me in on the details?"

The pilot laughed, "I was just a flyer for Davion, nothing exciting there."

"What about the other people?" His interest was obviously piqued. "Can't you tell me about the guy from Solaris, that weird Capellan or that creepy doctor?"

"Honestly, Herr Strauss," answered Leven, "I don't associate with those people at all so I really don't know _their_ stories –Perhaps you should go ask them yourself."

"Can I do that?"

"Sure, why not?" said Leven, "I'll even introduce them to you."

**Human Resources**

**1330 Hours**

Leven escorted Jacob Strauss through the wide corridors to the office where employees were being fitted for their costumes.

"Heh, they're still lined up for measurements," commented the pilot.

Muffled shouting could be heard from inside the office. Strauss followed Leven through the open door, eager to learn what the commotion was about.

"I ought to kick your Capellan ass!"

"Me not Capellan! How many time I tell you?"

One of the men shouting was one of the infantry leaders, Johnson Longest, an experienced soldier from the Free Worlds League. A swarthy-skinned man of Terran African descent, Longest was in the process of throttling another member of the infantry contingent, Lik Mai Dong, a soldier from the Davion border region of the Capellan March.

"What's all this, then?" shouted Leven, her voice much louder and two octaves lower than normal.

Longest released the other man and snapped to attention, "Nothing at all, ma'am, I was just pummeling this rice-burning asshole."

Lik Mai Dong injected, "Not my fault! I put on costume he get all angry."

It was then Leven noticed that Dong was wearing disheveled rags and made up in blackface. "Is _that_ supposed to be a costume?"

"I find it frickin' offensive, Leven!" Longest grated. "I had to smack him for it."

"This authentic pirate costume," insisted Dong, "I find picture in pirate article –Somali pirate."

"Wait, you're saying that you're supposed to be a black African"

"Yes, just like in picture!" He pointed to a photograph in a historical magazine.

Leven slapped her palm to her forehead, "You do know that you only look like a Capellan in black makeup…with white lips."

"Me not Capellan!"

"You're not Black, either, you stupid jackass!" Longest was ready for another round of administering attitude adjustment.

**Transient Executive Billeting**

**1900 Hours**

Jacob Strauss sipped his hot coffee while he organized the pages of notes he had taken during the day. He was very pleased with the list of characters he compiled through meeting the various members of Reinhardt's Corporate Raiders and carefully compiling detailed character profiles. He sat back and read one out loud, "The pirate commander is Captain Karl Wilhelm von Lützow, a dashing, womanizing member of Lyran nobility, following centuries of _Noblesse Oblige_, the Captain is required to raise a mobile raiding force and engage in clandestine raids against the enemies of his homeland, at great personal risk, he and his force are publicly reviled yet ultimately noble and self-sacrificing in purpose."

"He has several nobles in his command staff; one notable is a planetary Duke in exile, on a quest to liberate his people from the Clan invaders."

"Of course, the unit is filled with skilled, ferocious warriors, fearless practitioners of modern warfare."

"As expected, this unit of fierce fighters also has its share of comedy reliefs, such as the high-strung one from the Capellan March who barely understands Standard, who does incredibly stupid things at random times."

Strauss looked over the first paragraphs for a moment and laughed to himself. "_Now_ I can start writing!"

**Deep Space**

_Scene 1: _

_The scene opens with a slow pan over a jumpship of ancient design, carrying ornately painted dropships. A formation of Aerospace fighters gracefully burn past the massive vessel while it slowly yaws, framed by darkness and thousands of distant stars._

_Scene 2:_

_The inside of a jumpship, on one of the revolving gravity decks; It is modified to look like a throne room, ornate and opulent. There is a gold throne on a raised stage, upon it sits a man, dressed in a silk brocade coat, in the fashion of a 16__th__ Century nobleman; he wears a voluminous powdered wig of the same era. Around him are his confederates, men and women, many are similarly dressed, others, not so fancily._

_The nobleman rises from his throne and addresses his followers, "Pray attend me, my loyal crew, for I have tidings worthy of good cheer." With a flourish he unfurls a scroll, ancient and worn._

"_Have ye a new mission for us, Herr Kapitan?" asks one of the men._

"_Far better! I have in my hand a map, one which has traveled hundreds of light years over the centuries, at the cost of many lives and the spilling of much blood, to finally fall into our grasp." He strides among the entranced throng, presenting the scroll as if it were a holy artifact. "Behold ye all, a map that leads to a long forgotten Star League base and the treasures it holds!"_

_The crew cheers jubilantly, some break into dance in celebration as the commander draws his rapier and clears a circle amid the throng. "Step back and observe the briefing I have prepared." Above their heads a glowing holographic projection appears, it is a green planet._

"_Me recognize world," declares a crewman, "That Carver V."_

_The noble bowed and announced, "Give that man a flagon of brew!" He motioned with his blade, "Yes, Carver V, a world ravaged by the dispute between the Successor Houses, once a proud member of the ancient, fallen Star League –See this continent? The map indicates a military base of the long-gone SLDF is present, it ruins buried and forgotten."_

"_So, Kapitan, do we just swoop in and grab th' loot?" asks one of the crew._

_A middle-aged man in a white laboratory coat steps into the circle, "Allow me to answer that."_

_The Kapitan bows, "By all means, Herr Doktor."_

_The Doktor uses a laser pointer to point out a part of the globe and the image expands so that roads and buildings are recognized. "Over the centuries, there has been civil expansion and development in the area, such as this mall, this residential zone and this resort."_

"_I can't believe anybody would bother developing that worthless shithole?" growled one of the officers, it was ben Dover in a pirate uniform that was more a circus parody of the uniforms worn by the others._

"_That is a good question, Ben," answered the Kapitan, "The traffic that goes through there guarantees future growth so Carver V won't always be a worthless shithole."_

"_Aye, sir, in ten years Carver V shall be a shithole of value," replied Ben._

"Cut! Very good work, everybody. All of you take a two hour break." The director sat back down in his chair and viewed a replay of the scene in miniature.

The actors in the scene all relaxed, some wandered over to the table loaded with food and drinks.

_Freiherr_ Helmut drank deeply from a heavy stein, and enjoyed a frothing dark brew from a keg. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the script writer, Jacob Strauss, approaching.

"How may I help you, _Herr_ Srauss?"

The writer bowed, "_Freiherr,_ allow me to compliment you the delivery of your lines."

"Thank you _mein Herr_," responded Wiener with a nod, "I find the lines well written and they readily flow off the tongue."

Strauss' face lit up at the compliment, "Thank you, _Freiherr_, that means a lot to me."

The noble held up a gloved hand, "Think nothing of it."

"_Freiherr_, I do have a few questions about Reinhardt's Corporate Raiders," said Strauss.

The _Freiherr_ took another pull from his stein, "Ask away."

"Well, ahem, the unit is a military organization but barely resembles any military organization I've ever seen," began the writer.

Von Wiener smiled and calmly replied, "So, you've noticed that?"

"I've done research for scripts with other mercenary units and even with House, front-line units and they are all what people expect, the saluting, uniforms, all the ceremonies and rituals found almost universally among military units.

"If you must know, RCR is not a military unit; we are a _fighting_ unit," replied von Wiener, "We are not the toy soldiers of some political command structure, not paid to put on parades and other cheap shows for children. We _are_ paid to outmaneuver and render an opponent combat ineffective, often killing them, if need be."

"In that respect, I hire people who are very good at their assigned tasks, give them premium pay and allow them to wear whatever manner of costume they may desire," continued the _Freiherr_.

"So, when Dover and his group called the Ass Clowns dress up as circus clowns, it is with your blessing?"

"Yes. They get the job done and have earned that right. It is no different that the extravagant clothing worn by the Landsknechts of the Renaissance era –They earned the right to dress as suited their fancy," instructed _Freiherr_ Helmuth.

"Why do you wear an ordinary, civilian business suit?" asked Strauss.

"That is my choice –I am the Chief Executive Officer of this unit, after all. It is a business, one that requires my occasional attention and guidance."

Strauss jotted a couple of lines in his notebook, "I see," he looked up and licked his lips. "Herr Freiherr, I have heard that your unit received an invitation to train on Outreach and you declined," he shifted in his chair and leaned forward, "There are units that would literally kill for that opportunity."

Von Wiener frowned slightly, "Oh, _that_." He continued; his voice less annoyed, "The people on Outreach made all manners of unacceptable demands, such as sworn adherence to the defunct Ares Conventions and stupid things like diversity training."

"But didn't the Ares Conventions contain noble intentions?"

"The Ares Conventions were violated before the ink was dry –Noble intentions have no value in the real universe and I have no use for them," declared the _Freiherr_.

"I see," replied the writer, chastened.

"Anyway, I don't see anything that Wolf's Dragoons could teach me or this unit," said von Wiener. "I give my commanders freedom over their subordinates as they see fit with minimal interference -As with any business, the bottom line is results."

Strauss nodded in acknowledgement. "So, if I may ask, what do you think about Jaime Wolf?"

Von Wiener smirked, "Jaime Wolf? _Never heard of her_." Leaned back in his chair, very satisfied with his answer.

"Freiherr, your dinner is ready." It was a young woman in a traditional, frilly, maid's uniform. She curtsied meekly.

"Herr Strauss, I will have to end this interview for now," announced von Wiener. "Perhaps we shall continue at another time."

"Mister Dover, thank you for allowing me to impose on your time,"

"Hey, no prob," replied Dover, who lazed in his chair, a stein of frothing beer in his left hand. He still wore his costume, a comically exaggerated pirate uniform, with oversized clown boots. "I've got time before we resume filming."

"What can you tell me about your past, before you joined Reinhardt's Corporate Raiders?" asked Strauss.

"Meh, I don't want to bore you or myself with details," said the mercenary. "I grew up, attended school and academy, pissed off some people, served in a House military and now I'm here."

"Uh, could I ask you to, um, elaborate?"

"Yup, but I'm not going to," answered Dover. "Just say my life stopped sucking festering dog wounds when I joined the AoD."

"AoD?" Strauss rubbed his chin, "I've heard other people call the unit AoD instead of Reinhardt's Corporate Raiders, could you explain _that_ to me?"

Dover took a long pull from his stein and grinned, "Why are we called the _Army of Dickness_? _That_ is a story, Mister Strauss." He slapped the table twice, "Another beer!"

"Yes! Tell me the story!"

Dover leaned forward and licked his lips, seeing the writer warmed up to hear him, "It was back in '44, and th' Baron was on contract with _O'Donnel's Demons_. The unit was supporting a Lyran raid against the Combine when things went South and his lance was on the run." He scratched his chin, "What was her name…" The mechwarrior sat up and took a full mug of beer from a server, "Thanks."

"Yes, go on," Strauss was eager to hear more.

"Huh, there was a shapely, young Lieutenant in the Baron's lance…her name was Myra Turner." He nodded, "She was a real babe, alright."

"What happened?"

Eventually, the baron's lance was whittled down to two 'Mechs; the Baron's and Turner's, with furious DCMS units hot on their trail." He continued, "Von Wiener noticed that when one of his lance members fell, it was surrounded by Kurita units and captured, which reduced the number of elements in pursuit."

"I see…"

"When the last two 'Mechs reached a hill, they turned to assess the pursuers, at that moment, the Baron fired upon Turner's 'Mech and crippled one of its legs. Von Wiener apologized and told the lieutenant that he didn't have to outrun the combine 'Mechs, just _her_ 'Mech."

Strauss' jaw dropped, "He _didn't_!"

Dover laughed, "He _did_! Turner was supremely pissed and cursed a blue streak but held off the Combine units as von Wiener escaped to safety, von Wiener himself lead a company of Lyran regulars to the rescue and recovered his lance. He was given an award for that action. Only a real dick could do such a thing and not only did he get away with it, he was rewarded."


End file.
